


A Dream on Fire

by lady_wordsmith



Category: Actor RPF, Hemlock Grove RPF
Genre: Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, F/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Linear Narrative, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Rape/Non-con, Romance, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-08 20:08:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15937388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_wordsmith/pseuds/lady_wordsmith
Summary: You've known Bill since you were children, and from the time of your teens, you've been in a strange holding pattern that (in between periods of estrangement) could pass for romance. But when you decide to face a major event from your past, you must also face the damage you've done to yourself, to Bill, and to your relationship. For the longest time, Bill has been your rock, but will that change as you examine all of your past and face both the things you've done, and the things that were done to you?





	1. Seven Weeks

**Author's Note:**

> I blame my wife. And the Bill Skarsgård side of tumblr. This started out as a simple childhood romance plot bunny that got away from me fast, so buckle up.
> 
>  
> 
> **(bold with parenthesis is Bill's thoughts, more or less)  
> **  
>  bold without parenthesis is Bill typing  
>  _italics is you typing (and I am so sorry)_

It had been seven weeks since Bill had heard from you. Not worrisome in the grand scheme of things, especially now that you were both adults with lives and careers of your own, and you had definitely gone much longer in terms of bouts of radio silence,

**(like the first major time; it still hurts almost a decade later; even if it was mostly his fault, his fault even if you thought otherwise and even if he mostly made it right when he thought it was almost too late)**

but he worried for you all the time anyway. Somewhere in the long line of what you and Bill were, he had decided that the only time he wouldn’t worry about you was when you were in front of his eyes and even then it was dicey.

  **(and that train of thought always makes him think of that summer in Stockholm, when you laid in his arms and whispered some of your dark secrets through tears and he was terrified something in you had broken right in front of him)**

He’s surprised when he opens up his private social media and sees that you’ve reactivated your account again. This time, at least, you had avoiding the world at large, not just him, and your little sister had told Valter

**(who wasted no time in passing the information on as he had many times before, in a long-standing game of telephone designed to keep Bill in the loop when you wouldn’t or couldn’t; the game that makes him wonder if your families, or at least your respective younger siblings, are rooting for the two of you, more seriously now that you were adults from some outcropping of the jokes your parents and his made when the two of you were little)**

that it had something to do with a story you were covering that you had complained “was draining the life out” of you,

**(and that phrasing scared him a little despite your long tendencies toward hyperbole, and he has to put off thinking of darker times when he was certain he was losing you, losing you to something more than careers and the passage of time)**

something that involved a great deal of travel and occasional spy-like subterfuge in addition to the usual amounts of what your sister and Valter called “computer nerd crap.” It had sounded exciting on the surface, but Bill knew that it probably drained you more than usual, and didn’t blame you for withdrawing from the usual means of contact.

**(he blamed himself, always did, because he knew his presence was intense for you; that while he could be the one you turned to for comfort and warmth and ~~love~~ happiness, he also knew your darkest secrets and that was intense and terrifying even if the two of you never spoke of them)**

He supposed if he worked with computers and the sometimes shady people behind them as much as you did, he would avoid them in his downtime, too.

He debates sending you a message; a simple hello since he’s almost certain you’re actually up even though it’s two or three in the morning, but you beat him to the punch before he can make a decision.

_hi billy long time no talk_

_sorry ive been out of touch been workin on a thing_

_like a book thing not an article thing_

_took longer than i thought_

* * *

You sigh as you send the message. You have no idea if he’s really up this late, but you want to let him know you’re alive and okay. It’s different when you block him; even after you unblock him and he adds you again, those are the times you avoid reaching out, letting Bill make the first move. This time, though, you had withdrawn from everyone in general, and so it doesn’t embarrass or shame you to make the first move.

He responds almost immediately.

 

**With the way you type, I’m surprised your articles are as articulate and understandable as they are.**

_thank my editors lol thats their job not mine_

_i just write the stuff billy_

**Your poor copyediting staff. I should send them flowers.**

**How are things?**

_send em one of those edible arrangements of like chocolate n fruit or something so I can nick a few of the good ones_

_and things are good_

_well now at least_

_sorta_

_long story_

**Is it ever not a long story with you?**

_dont be mean billy_ _:(_

**Are you okay, though? Seriously.**

_eh_

_been better been worse_

_u up for a skype chat_

_missin ur face nerd_

**Sure. Give me a minute?**

It takes a few minutes for the two of you to get completely set and ready, but when you see Bill’s face you immediately grin and giggle.

“Bill! Missed you so much!” you tell him.

He smiles back at you as he studies the background behind you. It’s not your room or your office at home. He’s seen both rooms often enough that he’s sure he could traverse them blindfolded and describe them in detail to the police if he ever had to. The room behind you seems dingy and poorly lit, ramshackle and run down.

“So, uh, where are you? Still on the road, I mean?” he asks, looking confused.

You look behind you and shrug before turning to face the screen again. “Kinda? I’m in a motel for the night. So if this gets dropped, that’s why; the guy at the front desk said the wifi was, and I quote, ‘spotty as fuck.’ Being in the sticks like I am, I’m not surprised.” You let out the breath you had been holding and play with the ends of your hair as you watch Bill nod. “I should be home tomorrow, though, if you want to wait-?” You let the question in your voice hang there.

“No, no, no, that’s, uh… that’s fine. I want to talk to you.” Bill interrupts. He doesn’t get to talk to you as often as he wants

**(which, if he had his way… he shakes his head to clear the thought and smiles again)**

 and he welcomes any opportunity, especially if it means seeing you, even if only through a computer screen.

“Well… Good.” You say, nodding and letting your hands fall away from your hair.

“So…” he trails off, biting his lip and looking away from his webcam.

“So.” you reply back, your voice light and teasing despite your own nerves. You’re almost positive that Bill can sense them radiating through the screen, but he’s too busy looking away (and is that… Is he _blushing_? Why would he blush?).

“You look… Good. Healthy.” Bill says, clearing his throat and turning his eyes to you once again. He smiles, and you can see his smile is genuine, and you give him a tentative smile back.

“You always… You always say something about that.” you mumble, brushing your hair behind your ear. “My health. Ever since…”

“I’m sorry,” Bill interrupts you. “Should I… Not? I mean, I worry about you. It’s not just… That, you know? I mean… You go dark for these long periods of time and I don’t hear from you, or I get information third or fourthhand.”

You visibly flinch, and it makes Bill pause. The more he says it’s not that, the more it keeps getting referenced. The first time you went a long time without speaking, the first move in this game of push and pull the two of you play. It’s almost always you pushing him away, almost never the reverse, and you know he doesn’t mean to be cruel when he talks about it, but it fills you with shame anyway, especially after all he’s done for you even when he didn’t have to, _especially_ when he didn’t have to.

“I never… Thanked you for that, you know.” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “For keeping me in your mind, even after… All that. And for coming when I needed you, even if I didn’t know it and was an ungrateful little shit at the time.”

“You had your reasons, and I never once blamed you for having them.” and his voice is so soothing and reassuring and it makes you angry for a split second that he’s not mad at you, but the anger dissipates when you look at your screen and see him smiling at you.

“You’re lucky you’re cute, Skarsgård.” You mutter, and Bill’s smile becomes a full-on grin as he bursts out laughing, any tension in the preceding moments forgotten.

“Is that why you keep me around? Because I’m cute? Not because of my brains?” Bill asks when his laughing dies down, putting on a face and pretending to be offended.

“We all need something pretty to look at once in a while,” you quip back, taking a sip from the cup of coffee on your desk. “And you’re damn near a work of art.”

“Picasso or Dali?” Bill asks with a shiteating grin, and you nearly choke on your coffee as you hold back a laugh.

“Asshole! See if I pay you a compliment again. Rude, that’s what you are.” You tell him, setting your coffee cup back on the desk and leaning back in your chair slightly.

“So… a book?” Bill asks you. “Is this a… I mean, uh, what’s it about? Computer stuff? Your sister and V said something about that.”

You sigh, sitting up straight and playing with your hair again. Bill just watches you, knowing it’s a nervous habit of yours and at the same time wishing he was there to play with your hair

**(and he thinks again, about that summer in Stockholm and the hotel room you stayed in even though almost the entire rest of his family was off visiting yours in the States, because you were afraid that if someone saw you with him at his house the neighbors would say something to his parents who would tell your father who didn’t know you weren’t really backpacking through Europe and staying in hostels; the hotel room where Bill holed up with you for almost two weeks and laid in the bed with you and kissed your face all over; your temples and your forehead and your cheeks while he played with your hair after you told him those secrets, trying to say without words that he didn’t think you were broken and that he loved you more than he could ever express)**

and keep you calm.

“Well, the old game of telephone is still working,” you quip, but there’s no amusement in your eyes. “Better than it used to, even.”

Bill knows immediately you’re referring to the topic the two of you had spoken of just a little earlier, the cloak-and-dagger act that the two of you did when one of you talks about your health. “Hey, it worked fine that time. Don’t blame V for not understanding it wasn’t _actually_ a matter of life or death.” Bill replies, sounding much more jovial than he feels.

**(and he thinks about Valter saying that your little sister had said it was something like what happened to your mother, and how Bill’s mind had immediately gone to being nine or ten and sitting with you after the funeral, holding your hand as the adults spoke in hushed voices in the other room; how he held your hand because it seemed the right thing to do and it made you stop crying for a little while as you seemed to realize he was there for the first time and you immediately launched into telling him one of those epic fantasy stories you so often told off the top of your head even as you occasionally sniffled)**

“Eh. My sister probably shares some of the blame for that. Brat.” You concede. “They were what, sixteen or seventeen? I guess I shouldn’t have expected either of them to understand the difference between endometriosis and endometrial cancer.”

**(he doesn’t say it but he’s pretty sure your sister knew the difference and lied to V, because if she lied to him and he told Bill the lie then maybe Bill would go to you and do something about the three year long estrangement the two of you had had since a year after the Stockholm summer, the estrangement that was all Bill’s fault no matter what you said later; and damned if he didn’t go to you in New York five seconds after he was able, fearing that he wouldn’t have a chance later, and how combative you had been but how at the same time you let him in and later told him it was exactly what you needed and he’s pretty sure your sister knew all that for being a dumb teenager at the time)**

“I mean, not a simple mistake, but definitely… definitely, uh, understandable? From both of them.” Bill says. “Now stop stalling. The book. Tell me.”

You sigh, pulling at the ends of your hair. “It’s not about any computer crap. I told Little Miss Snitch that because I knew she’d say something to V about it, and… well, I knew telling her the truth would lead to some really awkward questions.”

“From me?” Bill asks. He’s confused; it’s true that sometimes he has questions about the things you do for your career, but he’s not sure he’d ever classify them as awkward.

You shake your head. “No. From her. Or from V. Maybe both. And not just questions for me. They’d probably ask you, too. At least they’d ask if you knew about it at the time it happened. I mean, what I’m writing about.”

And immediately Bill’s blood is a little cold, and his worry for you is off the charts. “Do you need…? I mean, would you… Can I come out and visit you? When you’re home?” he asks, and he realizes he’s clenching his fist so hard his knuckles are white and his nails are digging into his palm.

“I’d like that.” You say, your voice sounding drained to Bill’s ears. It speaks volumes to him.

Bill bites his lip, wanting to reach through the screen and hold you. “So you’re writing about-“

“I think I needed to, finally.” You say, cutting him off. “You’re the only person I told back then. The only person who knows besides me and… well, you know. The guys who did it. And… I can really just…”

“I’ll be there,” he promises you. “When you get home tomorrow. I’ll book a flight right now, okay? While we’re talking.”

God, just the way his voice immediately switches to soothing and gentle makes you want to cry, and you haven’t cried about anything related to this in years. You’re pretty sure the last time you cried about this was when you first told Bill what had happened to you.

“Okay,” you say in a whisper, and then repeat yourself, louder in case he didn’t hear you.

“Please don’t tell me you were out _looking_ for these guys.” Bill says, flinching at how harsh his voice sounds before switching back to the soothing tone he had before. “I’m sorry, I just-“

“It’s alright, I get it,” you reassure him. “And no, I just… went back to where it all went down. The town in general, I mean. A couple of them still live there, I guess, but I didn’t… I’m not sure I could face them by myself.”

It’s on the tip of Bill’s tongue to offer to go with you, act as your protector as you faced your demons, and damn his own career, but he knows that now isn’t the time because you’re not in your own territory yet, that you’re probably not thinking clearly enough and would turn him down out of reflex.

“You’re not still there, are you?” he asks gently as he looks for flights to New York City. He’d be getting there late, and paying a pretty penny in the process, but it’s for you. He knows you need him now, even if you wouldn’t say it.

“No,” you tell him. “I got out of there once I got what I was looking for. I was going to keep driving till I got back to New York, but… I know what everyone would say if they found out I was driving for over a day straight with no sleep. I figured I’d stop off for the night, start off early tomorrow. Or later today. Whatever. I’ll get home by evening, I guess.”

“Good, good. Exercising good judgment. Although I disagree with you not telling anyone about this beforehand, sweetheart.” Bill says, and his praise sends a chill up your spine, the good kind.

“Telling you, you mean. You’re the only one I ever told about… y’know.” You remind him.

“Maybe you should see a therapist first. Before pursuing the book idea fully, I mean.” Bill tells you, holding up his hands when you go to interrupt. “Just to see if you can even tell a stranger, sweetheart. If you can’t tell a stranger what happened, how can you write a book about it?”

You stay silent as Bill finishes up buying his plane ticket to see you. The flight is for late in the afternoon, and he can get a few hours of sleep and pack a bag before catching it, and he should be in the city around the same time you arrive.

“I mean… you can’t even say what happened to you, really-“

“Rape,” you interrupt him. “I was raped, Bill.”

“I know,” he says gently.

**(and he’s wondering if he’s ever heard you actually say the word before, how even when you told him what happened, you hadn’t been the one to say the word; instead, you dragged and pulled at your words long enough that Bill himself had been overcome with a sickening dawning of comprehension and he had shakily asked you if you had been raped and you only silently nodded and hid your face as Bill sat beside you on the bed in the hotel in Stockholm that summer wondering what to do; he had asked you short questions and you gave him shorter answers as he held your trembling hand, but you never _said_ the word)**

“When are you coming to see me?” you asked him, your demeanor changing as if you hadn’t just been talking about the previous topic.

“Well, I’ll be in New York… Uh, a little after you, I should think. I just bought the ticket.” He tells you, and your eyes widen in surprise.

“So soon? Bill, that must’ve cost you a fortune! You have to let me pay you back.” You protest, but Bill shakes his head.

“Just prepare to veg out on your couch with me when I get there. We can watch something, cuddle, and pretend I’m not there to talk you off a ledge.” He tells you.

You scoff. “I’m not on a ledge, Billy.” You say softly, and the use of the little nickname makes him think maybe you’re not, but maybe you are and are simply trying to disarm him and lull him into a false sense of security so he’ll chill out. It’s impossible to tell through a screen, and it only strengthens his resolve to see you as soon as possible.

“Maybe not. But maybe you should talk to someone outside your editors and publishers and all that. I mean, didn’t you tell me they just want to make money?” he asks you, and you roll your eyes. “Look, if nothing else, maybe talking to me will help keep your head straight in all this.”

“Maybe.” You concede. “But you’re sleeping in the guest room, Billy.”

“So seducing you into going to therapy and putting the book on hold is off the table?”

You pretend to be considering it, trying and failing to hide a smile from Bill. It makes him relax a little, but you’ve thrown so much at him he’ll need to see you in person before he can _really_ relax. Even if you hadn’t made the offer for him to see you, he probably would have come to you anyway, especially when you were dealing with all that. He wanted to offer you any support he could give you, and it was easier in person.

“So tomorrow, then. Or later today. Whatever.” You say, and Bill nods.

“Later today.” He agrees softly, and shakes his head when you attempt to muffle a yawn. “Go to sleep, sweetheart. I’ll call you before I catch my flight, okay?”

“Okay.” You agree. “Night, Billy.”

You log off, and Bill lets out a breath. He’s not sure what lies ahead, but he knows he’ll be by your side as long as you’ll let him. There’s too much shared history between you two for him not to be, but at the same time he knows that this isn’t about your shared history and you may only need him there as a friend. Which he will be, if that’s what you need. He’s always ready to be there for you at a moment’s notice, however you need him.


	2. The Only One(s)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill arrives at your apartment, so full of thoughts he's not sure where to start. You have an idea or two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **(bold with parenthesis is Bill's thoughts)  
>  bold without parenthesis is Bill texting**   
>  _italics is you texting_

On the plane, Bill lets his thoughts drift. Normally, he would read, but his attention is elsewhere. He thinks of your parents

**(your father, who called and still calls himself a modern troubadour, an explorer, a traveler, and on and on but always needed a woman to keep his house and affairs in order while he put himself forward as a man of art and culture, but Bill knows that he’s a good enough man with compassion and heart of his own but there had always been a distance there that was obvious to Bill, a separation that did not exist with your mother and Bill wonders if maybe your father didn’t know how to relate to a family of daughters and withdrew because he felt that’s what fathers did; but your mother was something of an earth mother type who both loved to take care of children whether her own flesh and blood or otherwise; he remembers an inviting, kindhearted woman who rarely seemed to mind that you and Bill were attached at the hip and sometimes he wonders what would have happened if your mother had lived to see the two of you grow up, if things might have been easier or even completely different, and Bill accepts he may never know)**

his own,

**(he knows your mothers had met first even if he’s not certain exactly when; that his father had gotten along well with your mother and that both of his parents didn’t exactly _dislike_ your father but found him slightly pompous even if Stellan would tell you and Bill when the two of you were teenagers that your father’s rough edges had smoothed out later which made you and Bill laugh in disbelief until one of you discovered your father’s first published and by then long out of print book of poetry at a thrift shop and read it out under the sprawling weeping  willow tree by the creek in your backyard, giggling the entire time as you passed the book between the two of you)**

and of course you.

**(his thoughts always led back to you, of course they did, even when he tried not to think about you he did; those three years the two of you didn’t see each other, didn’t speak, didn’t even use social media to keep in touch, those three years he thought about you constantly, first in anger at you and then in regret for letting you leave the way you did and finally anger at himself for being so stupid but when Valter told him you were ill, it all took a backseat to the fear of losing you and he’s not sure he’s ever let go of it)**

After his plane lands, he gets his bag and as he leaves the airport to get a cab, he sends you a quick text. He had called you before his flight like he promised but that nagging thought in his head lingered; until he saw you with his own eyes, he needed to make sure of your movements, and you hadn’t quite arrived home before Bill had had to board his flight.

**You home yet? Or am I going to have to deal with the cat’s separation anxiety when I get there?**

_yeah im home let yourself in_

_the cat only has separation anxiety bcuz u spoil her u no_

**Now who’s being dramatic? I’ll be there in 15 or 20.**

_cool i ordered some food_

He’s had keys to your apartment since that middle of the night reconciliation

**(just before he left you had tossed a set of keys at him and he caught them despite being unprepared as you told him that they were “so that next time, you’re not buzzing me over the intercom at one in the morning or slipping in the door because one of the other tenants is too drunk to pay attention to the tall weirdo coming in behind them” and Bill remembers not looking at you, not looking because he knew he would cry so instead he watched himself curling his fingers around the keys feeling their weight in his palm as he asked if the two of you were okay now and there must have been some kind of wobble or crack in his voice because you pulled him into a hug and that was it, it was like a bubble bursting; he had been trembling so much that he had to lean against the doorframe for support as he curled himself around you his face buried in your hair breathing in the scent of your shampoo in big shaky gulping lungfuls of air, and begging you “please, _please_ don’t hate me” and he felt so stupid and small and weak but also so elated, you were alive and maybe not totally okay but he didn’t have to look at calendars and wonder how much time he had with you and if it was enough)**

and they’ve come in handy many a time,

**(midnight visits when things are good, slipping into your bed and holding you and kissing your shoulder as you sigh in your sleep and your body relaxes so completely in a way you never do awake)**

though you’ve sometimes joked your apartment “isn’t your own personal hotel, Bill!”

**(of course it’s not, it’s another home, because you’re there and you _are_ home to him; but he doesn’t say that, only makes jokes about lousy housekeeping service and the subpar concierge)**

Bill’s cab drops him off in front of your building and he takes a moment, taking in the sight of the building. It’s a nicer one than the last time he was here, the latest in a steady series of upgrades for you, though he wonders sometimes if it’s less about having a nicer place and more of a form of emulating your youth; your parents moving from place to place and rarely staying longer than a year or two until your mother got sick. Then, once your mother died, your father moved even more often and it was rare you finished a school year in the same place you started.

( **and how often had Bill’s parents tried convincing your father that it was a bad idea for you and Hannah, that while Julie had made a home for herself abroad and the twins were away at university, you and Hannah were still small children and needed permanence and steadiness and the only thing your father did in response was get married, to Abby or Ann or Alana or whatever her name was, who was nice enough but stiff and prim in a way that made you, and thus Bill, avoid her unless necessary)**

While you had stayed in New York City from the moment you arrived for university, you had bounced around from borough to borough in a variety of living arrangements. Bill’s not sure if it’s remnant of typical youthful restless or some scar of your past, and you’ve never been one to discuss it. He shakes his head and heads inside. Once he gets to your apartment, he unlocks the door and is immediately greeted by your cat, who winds herself around Bill’s legs as he closes the door behind himself.

“Missed me, huh?” he asks the cat, reaching down to pet her and give some chin scratches as he looks for you. He spies the bag of cat treats on the kitchen counter and retrieves it, feeding your cat a few as she purrs and rubs her head against the hand containing the treats.

“She missed being spoiled by you, you mean. Rubbing herself all over you like some common whore.” you call out as you rise from your couch in the living room, moving to stand in the doorway. You look down at your cat who raises her head to look at you briefly before retreating, presumably to her cat tree.

“You’re going to give her a complex; she’s going to need therapy.” Bill chides you as you walk over to him in the kitchen.

“I thought she was going to need therapy because I never gave her a name,” you teased back, touching Bill’s arm before giving him a quick hug.

“She’s going to have a lot of issues: not having a name, you calling her a whore, me going between the extremes of spoiling her and being an absentee cat father…”

You snort a laugh and lightly nudge Bill as you turn to go back into the living room. “She’ll be fine. C’mon, I’ve been browsing while I was waiting for you to show up. I think I see a Jonestown documentary with our names on it. Food’s in the living room, but there’s beer in the fridge if you want one.”

Bill grabs himself a beer and goes to join you,

**(thanking his lucky stars that you let the cat comment pass)**

settling himself on the couch and sliding an arm around you. You don’t say anything but snuggle closer as you turn the documentary on. For a long while, the two of you are silently watching the documentary, you almost seeming to ignore Bill while he’s trying not to sneak looks at you

**(he always fails, can’t help it, but you don’t seem to notice and make no comment)**

and finally he can’t stand it and turns his head to look at you.

“Did you tell anyone? About where you were going, or that it was for a book, or…” He has so many questions that he can’t even keep them straight.  You sit up and move away from him, stopping to pause the movie as you do so.

“One at a time, Bill.” You tell him, and you turn your body fully to look at him.

It’s a little unnerving, having you actually face him, with signs you were actually willing to talk about it, without seeming hesitation,

**(you hadn’t even looked at him when you first told him, that summer in Stockholm, keeping your eyes low and focused on the bed the two of you were sitting on while you tried to tell him without saying _that_ word; anytime he mentioned it after you would always look away and murmur some variation of “not now” or “I don’t want to talk about that” or most often “please, Billy, no” in a strange way that made his heart twist; when you did talk about it after it was in veiled fragments that you usually spouted off when drunk or stoned or some other form of intoxication and sometimes in the company of others that makes him wonder if anyone else ever figured it out and it’s not as much of a secret as either of you believe)**

and that probably gets his hackles up more than if you were avoiding the subject. He wonders if whatever you had been doing for the last seven weeks had done something to you, if you had a lot going on in your mind, and if you’re willing to share it all with him.

“Does anyone know that you’re doing a book?” Bill asks.

“My agent. My editor. The people publishing the book.” You say, and there’s a slight smirk on your face and a sparkle in your eye, and Bill can hear the sarcasm from every word.

“Besides them, smartass. And me.” He cuts in the last two words because he can _see_ that sparkle get slightly more sinister.

You shrug. “I may have mentioned it to a couple people at work that I was working on a memoir of sorts. They asked if it was about my crazy childhood. I said sort of.”

**(not a complete lie, really, you had been seventeen when it happened, Bill tries to remember, and he thinks you turned eighteen before heading to Stockholm, but he knows that’s not what your coworkers meant)**

“That usually opens the door to questions about whether you’ll be writing about my family, doesn’t it?” Bill asks, and you scoff again.

**(he remembers one of the essays you wrote, your first tentative branching out from strict “computer nerd crap” for the website you wrote for, an essay for the section of the site called ‘the confessional,’ and how he had read the comments section because it was during one of those periods of time where you “just can’t, Bill, you’d be better off if we never met” and he was desperate for news of you because all his channels were dead silent, even Hannah and Valter had nothing, and so he read the essay which was about your father’s remarriage when you were fifteen and then he read the comments section, and how surprised he had been that most of the people were trying to guess if the boy in your essay with the pseudonym “Eric” was supposed to be Bill and used that as a springboard to discuss your relationship and while the comments were a bit of a pain, it was also amusing to read “baby bill skarsgård clearly gave no fucks about the stepmother walking in on them considering his hand remained in her panties the entire time” when really he remembered being frozen in clear embarrassment when your soon-to-be stepmother walked in on the two of you and anyway it wasn’t your panties but instead his hand had hovered ineptly along the waistband of your jean shorts and not actually in them but he supposes that’s not the point)**

“People don’t ask that so much anymore, Billy. I mean, they ask about you, definitely, but that’s because… you know, you and me.” You say, relaxing your body and turning to look back at the television again.

**(he supposes that his whole family stopped being fodder when you wrote _that_ essay about your mother that made people uneasy, since your mother was the reason for the association with his family in the first place; but Bill is certain that he himself is still fair game because of the assorted old pictures that have surfaced on the internet over the years, old family photos and random candids where the two of you look closer than people think you should for being supposedly platonic; add to that the one essay you wrote that Bill is certain is about him, the one about a nameless ex-boyfriend, the one that makes him wonder why you still bother)**

“Like we haven’t heard those jokes a million times before.” Bill says, sliding his arm back around you.

“Well, your father kept having sons, mine kept having daughters. Frankly, I’m surprised that there weren’t _more_ jokes made at the expense of each ordered pair.” you say, resting your head on Bill’s shoulder.

“To be fair, the only really ordered pairs besides you and me were Alex and Julie and V and Hannah.” Bill says, absentmindedly reaching to run his hand in your hair. “Unless you pair Gustaf and Sam with the twins.”

You think for a minute. “No,” you decide. “That would be torture.”

“For my brothers or your sisters?”

“Yes.”

Bill chuckles, his hand still playing with your hair. Normally you swat him away after a while, so you must really be rattled by whatever happened on your trip to let him continue like this.

“So why have the comments on you and I persisted? No one says anything about the others anymore.” Bill asks, and through the corner of his eye he can see you roll your own eyes and shoot him a look of disdain before scoffing.

“Because Hannah’s a lesbian, Bill. Any comments about her and V can and _will_ result in those two having a loud conversation about their shared love of pussy that would have strangers looking over in mortification. You know that. Or at least, you would if you attended the dinner where that actually happened.” you remind him, and Bill winces.

“Please don’t tell me they really did that.” he says.

You nod.

“Mmhmm. Dad learned real quick that Valter and Hannah have very little social graces when they put their minds to it.” you tell him. “And as for Alex and Julie, that was stopped on account of taste when Julie went backpacking off to Asia and decided to stay and became a _Bhikkhuni_ -”

You notice Bill looks confused, and you sigh with a giggle and sit up, and Bill’s hand slips out of your hair after a moment’s hesitation.

“A Buddhist _nun_ , Bill. With all that implies. Making jokes after that… Well, your father still might. Mine still hasn’t forgiven her for choosing to stay in Vietnam.” and with that, you rest your head back on Bill’s shoulder, actually moving his hand back into your hair.

“So basically, we’re the only ones close enough in age where talking about a hypothetical relationship between us doesn’t come off as tasteless or bigoted?” he asks, alternating between lightly scratching your scalp and twisting locks of your hair between his fingers.

“Well, I mean, mostly. Dad might have panicked for a few seconds that one time he caught me naked with a girl-”

“When was this?” Bill interrupts, looking simultaneously confused and maybe a little interested.

You think for a minute. “Uh… My junior year, spring semester at NYU? We, uh, you and I…”

“During my asshole period.” Bill says in a quiet, sorrowful voice. He slides his hand from your hair with a sigh. “Have we ever really talked about that?”

“I believe the extent of it was me calling you a fuckface when you showed up at my apartment in the middle of the night when you thought I was dying.” you say, raising your head to look at him.

After a long period of silence, you reach out and take Bill’s hand, letting them rest in his lap. He looks down at your joined hands in his lap and then up at you.

“You want to talk about it? All of it, maybe?” you ask him.

“All of it?” he repeats numbly, his eyes still on the joined hands in his lap.

You sigh, and move yourself so that you can use your free hand to guide him to look at you.

“I’m guessing you have a lot of thoughts on your mind,” you say, slowly tracing the curve of his cheekbone with your thumb. “Not just this thing I was up to for almost two months.”

“Are you going to talk to them?” Bill asks. “The guys who did… that to you.”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” You admit, not looking away. It’s become something of a staring contest, but you’re not sure you want either of you to look away. “But it’s not just about that, is it?”

“No,” Bill says, shaking his head. “But… I don’t know, it’s… it’s a… it’s just a lot, you know?”

You nod. “Why do you think I run so often?” you ask him.

“I wish you wouldn’t.” Bill says, blinking as if he just realized what it was he said. “I mean, I… I just…”

“I know what you mean. I think I do, anyway. I just…” you sigh, looking away and cursing yourself for doing so. “We’re not so good at this, are we? Talking about the deep stuff.”

“We used to be.” He says.

**(was it that first separation where things started falling apart or was it before, in that Stockholm summer ensconced in a hotel room, where the bottom fell out and he began that steady march toward what he’s almost certain is the loss of you from his life, a loss he’s not certain he can handle because you’ve been in his life almost from day one)**

“The deep stuff was a lot less deep when we were teenagers, Bill.” You point out, looking back up at him.

“So? That shouldn’t… I mean…” he sighs, biting on his bottom lip, seeming to consider his next words carefully. “You trusted me enough to tell me something once, something you never told anyone and still haven’t. Doesn’t that mean something?”

“I’m not the one without trust here, Bill.” And that declaration makes him pull away almost with a _snap_ , space between you and dropping your hand from his.

“I trust you,” he mutters, and you’re reminded of a sulking child.

“Really? Bill, I told you I was raped, but you can’t even say you’re in love with me, to me or anyone else, and yet everyone else who knows us, _really_ knows us, has known since we were, what, seventeen?”

“I was seventeen, you were eighteen.”

“Semantics. Point still stands. Bill, be honest with me.” And then you’re looking him in the eye and he’s frozen in place because there’s this mix of sadness and fear in your face. “Are you in love with me just because you think you can save me? Is this just you trying to be some knight in shining armor looking to…? I don’t know, redeem me in some way? Because I swear…”

“Thirteen.” He interrupts you, and your emotional rollercoaster stops dead in its tracks as you stare at him, eyes wide and mouth slightly open as he holds your face in his hands.

“What?” is the only word you can manage to utter.

“Thirteen. Not seventeen. I’ve been in love with you since I was thirteen.” He says, resting his forehead against yours. “Or maybe I always have been, and thirteen was just when I knew.”

And with that, he closes his eyes and moves back, kissing your forehead as he goes.

“Is that it? Is that all you want to know?” he asks, his voice raspy and strained.


End file.
